0 Comments
0 Shares
0 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Pale FractureThe wall breathes. You feel it against the back of your neck, a cold, rhythmic expansion, like the lungs of a sleeping god. It is the only thing here that moves. The rest of the architecture is static, frozen in a state of perpetual, gray twilight. You stand in the center of the Atrium, a vast, circular room whose ceiling vanishes into a haze of mist and geometric shadows. The floor is polished...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenThe banquet hall smelled of tallow and stale beer. The air was thick, a physical weight pressing against the lungs. Silas Thorne sat at the long oak table. His hands rested on the wood. They were large hands. Broad palms. Knuckles swollen. Like river stones smoothed by decades of friction. He watched the steam rise from his bowl. It curled and vanished. A ghost of warmth in the cold room....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended gray membrane that clung to the skin of the city, turning the neon signs on the avenue into bleeding watercolors that smeared their reds and blues across the wet asphalt. Elias Thorne walked with a heavy, deliberate rhythm, his boots striking the pavement in a dull, rhythmic thud that seemed to vibrate up through the soles of his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe fog does not roll in; it rises, a cold, white tide that swallows the pine needles and the gravel path beneath your boots. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two, and you have twelve hours left on a shift that feels like it has been going on for years. Your left hand is shaking. It has been shaking for three months, a fine, persistent tremor that the doctors in the city call a degenerative motor...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe parchment did not smell of oak gall and iron, but of copper and old rain, a scent that clung to my fingers like a physical weight. I sat in the scriptorium, the only light a tallow candle that guttered in the draft coming from the broken window, my hand trembling as I attempted to copy the Psalms. I am Elias, a scribe of thirty years, and I have served the Abbey of St. Jude for the better...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageThe mist hung low over the valley of Aethelgard. It was thick. It was wet. It smelled of rotting peat and old stone. Elias walked. He had been walking for three days. Or perhaps three months. Time moved strangely here. It did not tick. It pooled. It stagnated. He carried the lantern. It was a heavy thing. Iron frame. Glass panes. Inside, a flame that did not burn. It did not consume oil. It did...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe morning shift began with the hum of the ventilation fans. It was a low, constant drone that Margaret Holloway had come to mistake for silence. She stood before the mirror in the locker room, adjusting the collar of her white uniform. The fabric was stiff, bleached so white it seemed to emit its own pale light. Her hands trembled slightly as she fastened the top button. She looked at her...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe morning fog clung to the valley floor like a wet shroud, swallowing the lower branches of the oak trees until only the grey, skeletal tops remained visible against the leaden sky. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the cliff, his boots caked in the red mud of the path he had walked for three days, and he watched the mist churn below with a stillness that felt less like peace and more like...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe road to the village of Oakhaven was not a path of stone or dirt, but a ribbon of wet moss that clung to the earth like a bruise, slick and yielding under the weight of my boots. I had walked for three days, my satchel heavy with the tools of my trade: the silver chisel, the bone needle, the vial of distilled moonlight, and the journal that recorded the names of those who had been lost. I am...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek